The Republic of Silence and Night
by Lazy Wonderland
Summary: WW2 AU; PruIta, FrUk, Romerica. The Vargas brothers enter the city of Paris as journalists to shed light on the German occupation. Don't forget to leave a review.
1. Introduction

_Some madmen, they say, are obsessed by the feeling that an atrocious event has turned their lives upside down. And when they try to understand what gave them such a strong impression of a break between past and present, they can find nothing. Nothing had happened. This was roughly how it was with us. We felt at every moment that a link with the past had been broken. Traditions were interrupted, habits too. And we did not clearly grasp the sense of this change, which defeat itself did not entirely explain. Today I can see what it was: Paris was dead. There were no cars anymore, no passers-by in the streets except at certain times in certain districts. We walked between stones; it seemed we were left behind from some mass exodus. A little provincial life had stuck to the corners of the capital; there remained the skeleton of a city, pompous and immobile, too long and too wide for us. The streets, which you could see down right into the far distance, were too wide; the distances were too great; the perspectives too vast: you lost yourself in them. The Parisians stayed at home or led their lives in immediate locality, for fear of moving between these great severe places which were plunged, every evening, into absolute darkness._ (1)

"Ahem. Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3. Are you sure it's actually recording this time, Lovino? Ok, this is Feliciano Vargas, in an interview with a French Resistance fighter in the heart of Paris, 1946. He would wish for his identity to be anonymous, and for that reason we have blacked out the camera. I will now commence the interview."

 **Why didn't you flee Paris when you heard the Nazis were coming?**

 _I just… couldn't. I was born here and I will die here. My heart is with Paris, and I would die for this city if it came to it._

 **How did you feel when the Germans came into town?**

 _Dreadful, sorrowful, humiliated. I hated seeing those German troops march past all of the lovable spots in Paris; my favourite bookstore, the café I used to visit regularly, the house in which the woman I once wished to marry resided. Paris is, or should I say was, a city of artists, dancers, scholars, learners… lovers. Certainly not a place for those uptight Germans and their stuffy military clothing. They took the life out of Paris, and I hated them for that, hated seeing the city like that. A year later and we are still recovering._

 **How and why did you join the French Resistance?**

 _As I said before, the Germans took the life out of Paris. They not only took it out, but ripped it out and drowned it. They ripped people from their homes, never to be seen again. When they sought for French workers, and we refused, they sent us to work camps. They segregated us from the Jews, one of my best friends was Jewish, but I have not seen him again. Paris is now a city divided, and I thought that my days in Paris full of love were over. I thought Paris would never find its life again, but a good friend of mine came to me and said it was up to us, the Parisians, to fish it out again. France has now been liberated, with the help of Allied troops outside the city and the Resistance within._

 **A lot of Resistance fighters died leading up to and during that day. Was joining the Resistance worth the risk?**

 _Yes, absolutely. Looking back at it now, there was a lot of things I shouldn't of stuck my nose into, things that could've gotten me killed. There was not a time when a Resistance fighter asked ourselves anxiously, 'If I am captured and tortured, will I be able to hold out?' But that was part of it, you know. I knew the perils that came with being in the Resistance, but if it's not worth the risk, then what is the point of fighting?_


	2. Questions we Sidestep in Peacetime

**Questions We Sidestep in Peacetime**

 _The crowd parted before their uniforms and closed behind them, leaving a pale, unassuming—half-expected—patch of faded green among the dark clothing of the civilians._ (1)

 _November 1943, Paris_

Gilbert hated doing these so-called 'parades.' Festivities to let the rest of the world know Paris was alive and kicking, that she was still the city she once was. Instead, the German soldiers were just marching in the fast-deteriorating cobble stone streets while the French citizens stood watching hatefully from their doorways. But still, marching sure beat fighting along the Russian front. At least here he knew he and his brother would be safe. So they marched. Gilbert was on the end of his row, so he could see all the French citizens he had been living alongside for the past couple years. At first, they seemed like regular people but if you looked closely, you could see the sunken cheeks, the hollowed out eyes, the malnutrition evident on their faces and bodies. But most of all, the sorrowful look which became contagious soon after the Germans first strode into the city.  
Gilbert decided to avert his eyes from these guilt-inducing stares, to the road ahead. Down the street, he could see a couple figures trying to get to the other side of the street. With the soldiers marching on steadily, it looked like they weren't going to get far. There were two of them, siblings, maybe twins as they both had the same short brunette hair, although one was darker than the other. From where Gilbert was, he could only speculate the genders. A boy and a girl, he guessed, and the girl carried a suitcase with her while the boy was gesturing frantically for her to hurry up. This bothered Gilbert as surely the boy should have offered to carry the lady's suitcase, sibling or not. It seemed the boy had found a gap in the endless row of soldiers and was able to make it through, but the poor girl was less lucky as she accidentally bumped into one of the soldiers, spilling the contents of the suitcase everywhere. It was a camera, tripod, lights and microphone; the whole package. An expensive camera, comprised of many parts; one you had to fix up and take apart every time you wanted to use it. This complexity contributed to the quality of the camera, but was not very convenient when all the parts were scattered on the floor. The girl managed to gather nearly all the parts, but as Gilbert advanced towards her he noticed a cog had rolled out of her eyesight, therefore went unnoticed as she shut up the suitcase. Gilbert took a quick glance around at the other men, then broke away and scooped up the missing cog.  
Quickly jogging to the girl, Gilbert pressed the small cog into her delicate hands.  
"Oh, thank you." She spoke in English, which was surprising since Gilbert hadn't heard English in a long time. Her hand flew up to her mouth. "Ah, I'm not English." She probably knew about the recent arrests of Englishmen and women. It sounded like she was speaking the truth though, her words clipped by a distinct Italian accent. Gilbert tapped his nose twice.  
"Don't worry, you don't sound English." Gilbert walked backwards until he rejoined the march.  
"Where the hell did you go?" The man who marched next to him asked.  
"I think she was Italian." Gilbert was still looking back at the girl, who was now getting a good scolding from her brother.  
"What?" The soldier was baffled by Gilbert's supposed answer. Gilbert turned his gaze at the soldier, grinning like a love sick idiot.  
"I said I think she was Italian."  
Once Feliciano had joined his brother, he received every swear word under the sun from Lovino for dropping the suitcase. At least that kind German soldier spotted the cog. He'd be in even more trouble if he had lost that. But he was more confused than anything; as the war wore on, the people around him painted a terrible picture of the Germans. Nazi soldiers were robots who obeyed a tyrannical racist man with a moustache who only wished for power. And yet this German had helped him, had made him smile.  
Either way, he was able to get to the other side of the street more or less in one piece. He let his brother's rant go over his head, as he had grown accustomed to that kind of behaviour and knew that Lovino didn't really mean the things he said.

"Just don't fucking do it again."

Feliciano waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry, I've got it."

"Lovino!" They were joined by a slightly taller man with shoulder length golden tousled hair and a stubble. He pulled Lovino into a hug and kissed him on both cheeks. "So good to see you again, how's your Grandfather?"

"He died." Lovino was curt with this information, he didn't like getting into his and Feliciano's Grandfather's death too much for fear of upsetting either of them.

"Oh, sorry to hear that." The man had taken the hint and decided to change to subject. "And who is this lovely lady?" He sauntered over to Feliciano and bent down to kiss his hand. Feliciano could only giggle nervously at this courteous Frenchman.

Lovino slapped the Frenchman on his shoulder. "That is my brother, Feliciano. And could you take your fucking hands off of him." He smiled pleasantly through clenched teeth.

The Frenchman let go of Feliciano's hand. "Well, don't let a silly little thing like gender stop you. I'm right here if you need me, mon chéri."

The two brothers had migrated from America to France when America joined the war, but France being a country divided it had taken them 2 years to contact and meet up with family, that family being Francis. Francis was open to the idea of housing two Italians, even though he'd most likely be called a fascist due to their nationality. Feliciano and Lovino had gone to live in America in the first place to escape the fascism of their country, and to find a better life after their Grandfather died. Unfortunately, war beckoned and the two were told to leave. Refusing to go back to Italy, they decided to go to France, to go to the only known family they had left.

Francis welcomed them with open arms, and although Paris wasn't as lovely as it would have been without the war's interference, he stayed optimistic in hope of the two seeing a liberated Paris.

"And, of course, I fight in the Resistance." Francis told them while welcoming them to their knew home, a three bedroomed apartment much too vast for three people, let alone one. The excess of dusty expensive looking crockery made up for lack of food in the cupboards.

"You're too trusting, we could be collaborating with the Germans." Lovino remarked, taking into account the lavish but not very well-kept furniture; valuable, but stained; costly, but disorderly. The complete cut of electricity and oil also contributed to the sombre atmosphere of the apartment. The meek glow of the winter sun only emanated light in a small radius neighbouring the window, leaving the surrounding room in a pale shadow.

"But you are family, no? We should always be able to trust family."

Lovino scowled. Maybe he and Feliciano weren't fit for life in Paris, the heart of the world and the heart of the war. This was the first they had glimpsed at German soldiers so close, not on the radio or television. And it would become all too real all too quickly.


	3. Word From Our Defenders

**Word From Our Defenders**

 _This young pilot in his plane above our heads was connected to Britain, to America by invisible bonds; it was an enormous free world that filled the sky. But the only messages he bore were the messages of death._ (1)

A few weeks passed and soon the Italians fell into step with the Parisian lifestyle. Although the neighbours at first disregarded them as fascists, after actually chatting with each other they stole the hearts of those in close locality. The brothers proved a nice break in the routine, a distraction from the raging war just outside the city.

However, the Parisians were soon pulled back to their regularly scheduled programme, and the Vargas brothers were introduced, when the air raid siren calmly echoed through the streets. Many a time had the Germans told, ordered, the civilians to take cover during an air raid, but they never obeyed. They stayed in the streets squinting up at the dull white sky, searching for the proof that the world outside was still alive. At this time, Feliciano was fiddling with the biggest camera in their set of three, cleaning the insides and whatnot. When he heard the siren he first glanced to Francis, who seemed not to be in any sort of distress, so he returned his attention back to the camera.

Suddenly Lovino burst through the door beckoning for Feliciano and the camera to come, and to come quick. Since Feliciano had just finished setting up the large camera to check everything was spick and span, he perched it on his shoulder and ran out to where Lovino was waiting. He was telling Feliciano to start shooting immediately and pointed up at the subject in question. Inky black smoke billowed from an allied plane slowly arcing downwards, leaving a smudgy streak of charcoal on the vacant void of white cloud behind it. It looked close, too close for comfort. Feliciano followed it earnestly with the camera lens until it ducked behind the rooftops and chimneys. Just as the two brothers heard the cracks and booms of a clumsy fighter plane struggling to land, Lovino started trotting towards the crash site. Feliciano followed, and soon they were met with the sight of Parisians swarming around a hunk of metal that had just collided with the earth. All Feliciano could catch with the camera were the horde of people surrounding a balloon of smoke puffing out into the sky. Soon he caught glimpses of uniform; a pilots uniform, and he knew it wasn't American because he didn't recognise it as an American's. The Pilot staggered a bit, with surprise more than anything, but despite everything seemed unscathed. Soon a Parisian coat was thrown over him, much to his astonishment, and he was pulled further into the crowd. German uniforms were on sight almost immediately and checking the wreckage over. The Pilot was invisible right before them, a part of the crowd, now a Parisian. The Germans ordered the Parisians to disperse, and so they did. Lovino ran off in the direction of the scattered Parisians, especially the ones helping the Pilot, trying to squeeze any answers out as soon as possible. After all, that's why they came to Paris in the first place, to show what an occupied Paris was _really_ like.

Feliciano stayed where he was, trying to capture as much footage as possible. As the Germans milled about the carcass and the area surrounding it, Feliciano spotted one striding towards him. It was the same white haired man as the one who had helped Feliciano during his first day in Paris. Feliciano was delighted, and tried to wave while precariously balancing the large video camera on his shoulder.

Gilbert attempted not to catch the girl's eye as he sped up into a trot. He didn't think he'd see her so soon, he was surprised, and oddly pleased.

"I'm sorry, but you can't film here."

The girl turned the lens to the cobbled ground and stopped recording. She looked crestfallen, and Gilbert hating seeing her like that. "I'm sorry, I should leave then." She stepped back.

"No, wait." Now up close, Gilbert couldn't make out whether she was a boy or a girl. He seemed to be attracted to all these androgynous people. "I need the reel of film as well. I was told to destroy it, I'm sorry."

If the girl looked crestfallen before, she looked utterly miserable now. Gilbert bit his lip and glanced back at his superiors, who were still searching around the crash site.

He sucked in a short breath and looked back to her. "Listen, I won't destroy it if you don't want me to." He said in a hushed voice. "If you keep the reel safe and won't tell anyone about it or publish it then I won't need to destroy it."

The girl nodded happily, a contrast to her downhearted self a moment ago. "Of course, thank you, grazie." She stuck out a hand. "I'm Feliciano."

Gilbert took it. "Gilbert. And no problem, just don't tell anyone."

"We'll meet again?" She smiled for the fiftieth time.

"Hopefully. Auf wiedersehen," He paused for a second before adding, "Sweetheart." Then turned to leave.

"Ciao, bello." Feliciano called after him, and consequently Gilbert looked back and smiled before joining his German counterparts. Feliciano didn't think it weird that a German soldier had just called him 'sweetheart.' Then again, he had just called a man beautiful, and he was right. Gilbert was beautiful, there was no denying it. After all, Francis had said not to let gender stop him.

Feliciano decided to stay and watch until the Germans had fenced off and left the site. It was only then did he realise both Lovino and the Pilot were no where to be seen. He decided to backtrack to where he was before, a café they frequented, one that Francis was often seen in the back rooms helping operate the French resistance. Francis knew the owner, and their apartment resided above the café. The owner was unfortunately a Jewish Austrian, and a good friend of Francis. When the Germans came, he disappeared, leaving the café in Francis' hands.

Lovino turned his head upon hearing the bell notifying the inside someone was entering the café. He was stood in the doorway of the back room, and motioned for Feliciano to come closer. The back room was filled with every French resistance fighter in this area, from young boys to elderly women. This was big news; they had actually managed to save an Allied Pilot from the Germans' grasp. The Pilot in question was sat at the front, half unconscious and had blood trickling down his face. The wound was being treated by a kind old man, who was a doctor in a previous life, and who was also listening intently to Francis. Francis was at the front of the room trying to quieten down the eruption of questions from the citizens. Who was he? Where was he going? Where did he come from? Were the Allies winning, or did the Axis have the upper-hand? Were they any closer to liberating Paris? Would the war be over soon? All of which were asked in French to a half comatose man who probably only spoke English. Francis had a job to shut them up and get on with the agenda of the meeting.

"Would you please quieten down? Please?" The questions kept on coming. Francis sighed out of frustration.

"Shut the fuck up!" Lovino managed to stop people from uttering any more words by shouting from the back of the room.

"Thank you." Francis breathed. "As you may know, we have done an amazing feat today by securing the safety of this fine man." He gestured to the Pilot. "However, he may not be safe for long. I suggest he stays in the safest place possible until he recovers and we can find means of getting him out of the city. Either way, we need him out of the sight of the Germans. Any volunteers? It'll only be for a few weeks." Almost every hand in the room went up. "Can anyone speak English?" Every hand lowered until the only ones to be seen were Lovino, Feliciano and Francis'.

"You'll have to take him, Francis." Someone said. "Only you would be able to communicate."

Francis seemed unsure. "Yeah, Francis. We can't take him anywhere else anyway by the looks of him." A woman stated. A few others agreed

An old man perked up then. "Doesn't he already house those Italians? The Pilot will think we're all fascists."

"Well fuck you too." Luckily, Lovino said this in Italian.

The old woman next to him spoke immediately. "Shut up, Maurice. They are two lovely people. And Francis, you said it'll only be a few weeks."

Francis looked back at the Pilot and made his decision with an unconfident statement. "I guess he could stay for a little while."

The rest of the room, except for the Italians, cheered. So at that moment the future of this Pilot was determined.

 _To be continued..._


	4. Bibliography

Bibliography

(1) - Jean-Paul Sartre on _Paris Under The Occupation_ , published 1945


End file.
